"But if my career were truly exhibited, it must be as one long struggle against destiny in the shape of—" "Jonathan Wild," interposed Gay. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. She sat herself upon the bed. He was at length rescued from his assailants,— rescued to perish, seven months afterwards, with every ignominy, at the very gibbet to which he had brought his victim. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. And it hampers us. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping.
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